


Behind Stars and Under Hills

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Graphic, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur is separated from the others in Goblin Town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Stars and Under Hills

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=12673981#t12673981

Bofur isn’t sure how it happens, exactly – he might have been pushed, or he could have slipped, or a goblin might had dragged him down off the path. Either way he’s falling and his landing is painful, having hit his chest against an outcropping on the way down hard enough that for a moment he can do nothing more than lie there, winded. Then he sits up, reflexively feels for his hat – it’s missing – and grasps around for his mattock. It’s dark and he can’t see it nor feel its comforting weight. Bofur crawls painfully to his knees and searches among the rubble, pushing down on the panic of being without a weapon in a place such as this. Despite being alone and hidden in the shadows his head feels absurdly exposed.

Damn the hat. If all he loses is a piece of headgear then he’ll be luckier than he has any right to be.

He wonders, as he searches, where the others are and whether they’ll get out alive. They’re together, there’s that, but then they’re together where all the goblins are. He thinks of Bombur and Bifur and what a miserable end to the quest it would be: caught by goblins, tortured, probably eaten. He stops that thought; he cannot think of his kin so. Then he thinks of Bilbo and the painful twinge in his chest is a different one from the ones his many bruises are providing. Maybe if he hadn’t stopped Bilbo with his useless chatter then he’d be safe and on his way back to the elves. He wouldn’t be doomed here for an ugly, premature death.

He hears the sound of approaching goblins with their loud, foul voices even before he catches sight of their approaching torchlight. The place where he’d fallen is large and riddled with tunnels, but he isn’t a dwarf nor miner for nothing and Bofur can tell near instantly which entrance they are approaching from. It doesn’t help: any escape route now is to run straight past their noses and he still doesn’t have his mattock.

There’s nowhere to hide. Bofur grabs two rocks, a comfort in the rough palms of his hands, and waits with his back to the wall. He might as well go out with a good fight. All in all it could be worse. Just so long as he doesn't think of the others.

There are about ten goblins, possibly more still in the tunnel they emerge from, and they must have seen him fall since they’re not surprised to find him. There’s one, much taller than the others – about the height of a man but slouched, barrel chested, arms long enough the clawed fingers almost touch the floor. Its skin is grey and more like a toad’s than a dwarf’s, chin so undercut the ragged teeth from its upper jaw protrude out over the lower.

“I want him,” it says, thin voice like gravel. It takes Bofur a second to realise that it’s smiling. Then the others are running towards him and he hasn’t any more time to think, only swinging his fists and ducking from the first wave of groping hands. He bashes the first one’s face in, its eye popping from a sharp edge of his rock; it wails and falls back into a second and the third gets its throat crushed. The fourth manages to grab Bofur with all four arms and legs and even weighed down he hits the fifth with an elbow to the face. The sixth clings to his left arm and bites hard at his shoulder, close to his neck. The seventh gets a blow to the face but only glancing, cutting open its cheek and nothing more. It grasps his right arm and the momentum forces Bofur a step back, stumbling. The eighth goblin, barely larger than a child, climbs onto his back and puts its fat, twisted hands around his face. Claws black with filth dig into his eyes and mouth.

Bofur falls to his knees, still struggling. There is a roar of blood in his ears. Somewhere alone the way he’s lost his rocks and his fingers grasp uselessly at the bodies swarming him. He tries to get up but only falls again, flat onto his face with the squirming weight of more and more goblins pinning him down.

Well, he tried anyway. It’d been fun while it lasted, this whole quest thing. Bofur fights while he waits for one of them to finish the job, hoping in part of his mind that they’ll kill him before eating him, and in another part that the others will somehow get away safely. Bombur and Bifur deserve better than this. Bilbo, too. All of them.

As the mindless flow of battle starts to die and there are no teeth nor blades, and fear that he had previously been able to ignore starts to build, Bofur’s struggles turn uncoordinated. What are they waiting for? His eyes are closed – he’s no coward but he doesn’t particularly want goblin to be the last thing he ever sees – so he doesn’t notice the tall goblin’s approach until it speaks right above him: “Bring him in.”

The laughing words are enough to spark the first real fear, deep in his gut. The jolt as he begins to be dragged along the rough ground sets that spark ablaze. If he can’t manage crotchety old age then he wants to die in battle. The horror stories of goblins and orcs keeping their victims alive, fresh sources of meat and amusement, make up some of the last ways he wants to kick the bucket.

His clothes are both pulled and torn off – there are blades involved more than once – and though Bofur still struggles and kicks out with his not inconsiderable strength he is dragged inexorably deeper and deeper into the caves until they reach a dead end. His heart is racing in his chest, the sharp rubble scrapes his face raw. He cannot think straight for the fear.

His arms are tied together behind his back with thick, damp rope. He can feel the heavy beat of a knife snapping the laces of his boots before they’re pulled off along with the rest of his smallclothes. The direct touch of goblin and old, rotting, blood encrusted armour on his skin is repulsive.

He knows where this is going. He knows exactly what’s about to happen. He just can’t understand it yet, because this sort of thing doesn’t happen to him. It happens in horror stories and cautionary tales. It happens to other people.

Almost all at once the hands holding him down are gone and Bofur jerks to his knees reflexively, then stumbles to his feet. He’s panting, balance thrown with his arms tied so tight behind him. The goblins are watching him, grinning and panting in eagerness. The one that lost an eye licks his face where blood drips down it. The floor of the cave is wet and cold under Bofur’s bare feet.

He has never felt so afraid in his life. He doesn’t want to die – not now, not like this.

The tall goblin has a mace, little more than a knotted length of wood ending in a crude metal cap. It swings it at Bofur, who has nowhere to retreat in such a narrow tunnel. The blow that lands across his chest and forces him to stumble is softened from full strength, which would have smashed his ribs, but it hurts all the same. The second blow is likewise pulled and it strikes Bofur around his middle with bruising force. Bofur cannot help but grunt from the pain, huddling away, trying to protect himself and failing. The goblin is playing; its sharp teeth are bared in a grin, its eyes alight.

The third blow comes to his thighs, the forth quickly after lands on his stomach. Bofur retches, and while retching the mace falls onto his back like lashes. He is driven to his knees, back to lie on the floor like a dog and he hates it, he hates this weakness near more than he’s hated anything else before. He can do nothing about it as his body betrays him and he cannot get back up and fight.

He is hauled up instead, hands grasping his tied arms and pulling him to unsteady feet. He is pushed face first against the rock face, cold and unfriendly, not the comfort it always was. There is hot breath on his shoulder, stinking and fetid. Hands crawl across his waist and lower back and claws tear deep into the tender flesh there. Bofur struggles with his whole body but he is off balance and can no more push the goblin behind him away than he can push away the wall in front.

He is bleeding freely and fingers rub the blood into his skin, lower and lower until he can feel them spread his arse and let it trickle down between the cheeks. Then something else, hard and hot, rubbing up and down to slick itself.

Something in Bofur snaps and he forces himself off the wall with strength he didn’t know he had. He falls and gets up, falls again when one of the smaller goblins jumps and grabs at him. Bofur shouts incoherent words as he knocks the goblin off, ramming his knee into its throat. It has a knife in its belt but before he can turn to grab it he is bowled head over heels by a second goblin. He rolls and stands, then stamps on the goblin’s head again and again. Then he’s jumped on by three at once and no matter how he tries he cannot get their hands off him. He shouts again, scraping himself raw on the stone he’s crushed against. This pain in inconsequential, the need to escape far stronger.

As he’s dragged up this time he can see the taller goblin stand in front of him, its armour partially unbuckled and its cock, swollen and black, looking like something gangrenous; it's stroking it with long, rough movements and Bofur can see his own red blood smeared across the flesh.

Then he's pushed face first against a boulder, large and ragged points digging into his exposed skin. The goblin covers him entirely, pressing against his hips and thighs, arching over his bound hands. It’s tall enough to curl over him, chin pushing down on Bofur's forehead. One of its hands grips his waist and the other his shoulder, directly above the bite the other goblin had given him, claws piercing deep puncture wounds. Bofur kicks and shoves with his back and shoulders. He's speaking, he realises, and cannot stop: "No, no no no no –"

The pain as the goblin forces itself into him is indescribable.

Bofur cannot help himself as he makes a noise that would be a cry if only he had the air in his lungs for it. As the goblin bucks its hips, forcing itself further in inch by inch, it feels like his spine is being broken again and again in every possible place. All of the other hurts and pains are small now, barely registering beside this. It’s not just pain wrecking him as he is split open – Bofur has been in agony before. It is disgust deep enough he wants to claw out his own insides; it is horror and fear and violation.

The goblin pauses for a moment. Bofur realises that the others behind him are squealing in laughter like pigs. Hands touch the inside of his thighs and are then replaced by softer, wetter things. They're licking him, he grasps distantly, licking the blood off him where its dripping, and the thought is a kick in the gut that makes him want to throw up. Then the taller goblin starts to thrust again, violent, the crushing pressure forcing Bofur's breaths to sync in ugly rhythm. Its own panting breath sweeps foul air into his face, his eyes and open mouth, and there is nothing to focus on, no inner strength he can rely on that hasn't already been broken. The goblin’s hands move down his shoulders and across his waist, claws splitting open the skin in long furrows. It leans to one side to grasp his earring with its yellow, pointed teeth, pulling it out, tearing it through the flesh of his earlobe. It suckles on the split; its tongue laps, teeth widening the tear up to the cartilage. All the while it thrusts its hips, rutting like a dog.

Bofur's eyes are tight closed, face pressing into the rock, but he cannot block out the agony. He is gasping; he cannot tell if the wetness on his face is tears or blood. He doesn’t care in the slightest but tries to concentrate on it just to escape in any way possible, but he can't. The pain brings him back with every jagged thrust, every new tear and ruin of his body. The goblin is laughing at him and the others are still squealing and he want this to stop now, right now. It has to stop because he cannot possibly endure it for any longer.

It doesn’t stop.

Head-butts are useless when the height of the goblin means that they are nothing more than ineffective scuffs against the collar of its armour. He cannot kick because of the goblin’s legs press his own against the rock face. His bound hands meet nothing more than leather and cloth. He is useless, hobbled.

In the end it is nothing that he does that stops the goblin. Bofur doesn’t see what happens, doesn’t want to know, but the goblin withdraws without warning and steps away. Bofur falls to the floor, his legs refusing to hold him up, and the impact is enough to force a cry from his lungs. It feels like his lower body is on fire, like a knife is still shredding him.

He looks to the goblin and sees it grab one of the smaller ones by the arm and swing it against the cave wall. “Little filth,” it snarls, and the smaller goblin’s bulbous head splits open like a hard boiled egg.

Bofur does not stop to watch. He forces his legs to move as he scrapes his body along the ground to the goblin with the crushed throat and knife still in its belt. Bofur’s breath is ragged as he turns back to face the larger goblin, still brutalising the other’s dead body, and manages to grasp the knife with his bound hands. He cuts his thumb open in his haste to saw through the rope but he cannot stop shaking, violent tremors seizing his whole body.

The knife is not very sharp and he nicks his wrists more than once, but by the time the tall goblin turns to face him his hands are free. Still – it has picked up its mace again, the metal cap sticky with gore, and Bofur cringes away as it approaches. His hands are still behind his back so it doesn’t know he’s free, but it is a small advantage. He feels like his body has been pulverised. He hurts so badly; he is so small compared to the goblin. Just the thought of it touching him makes his body useless with fear.

He doesn’t want to look but he cannot ignore that the goblin is still hard, jutting out between its legs, black and wet and red.

The goblin doesn’t swing its mace but comes closer to drag Bofur up by one braid. Bofur stabs the knife into its throat.

Its scream gurgles, spews blood into his face, and Bofur is dropped as it reels back to clutch the knife. The four others left start screeching, scampering just out of reach around the writhing body. Bofur doesn’t stop to think, only picks up the mace and swings it at the head of the nearest goblin. It dies instantly, skull broken in. He swings again and crushes the chest of another. The third he gets in the face but the fourth is too close and manages to grab him before he can stop it. They tumble down together and Bofur drops the mace, ramming his thumbs into its eyes even as it grasps his neck and starts to choke him.

Its snarl turns into a scream as its yellow eyes split, leaking fluid. Bofur sits on the goblin’s chest and with his thumbs still in its eye sockets he grasps its head, bringing it up to bang against the uneven floor, again and again. It falls silent and still quickly but he doesn’t stop, not until the back of its skull is pulpy and the floor is slick with blood.

Bofur lets go, then stands. He is still shaking, breath trembling. The tall goblin is alive, prone on the floor, bubbles blowing in the trickle of blood still dripping from the slit in its neck. One of the smaller ones is alive too, choking and hacking wetly as it huddles in a crevice in the rock. Bofur bends to pick up the mace and uses it to smash its head in. Then he turns and breaks in the taller goblin’s head as well.

The mace falls from Bofur’s nerveless hands. The sudden quiet is blaring. He is actually alive. He hadn’t thought he would ever – but then he is still alone with no idea how to get out. There are thousands of goblins still outside.

The thought makes him tremble. But he has to try. He has to get out, has to see his brother and cousin again.

Bofur picks between the bodies and tries to salvage his clothes. He knows he should leave as soon as possible but he cannot bear the open caverns just yet. Slipping on his torn and ravaged clothes makes it impossible to ignore the ruin of his body: the whole of his front from forehead to knees he is scraped and bloody. His stomach has the worst of it, rubbed raw in more places than not. His earlobe is split in two and still dripping blood and his back and shoulders are a canvas of slices deep enough to warrant stitches. His hands and wrists are littered with cuts, the largest a gash half an inch deep stretching across the base of his thumb to the flesh of his palm.

He hurts worse in other places but he cannot think of that right now. Bofur picks up the torch left propped against the wall and makes his way out into the main caves where he’d first fallen. He hesitates before stepping out, terrified that there might be more goblins – it is not until he catches sight of his own mattock, obvious now there’s light, that he’s drawn out. Only a few feet away from it is his hat. He grasps the mattock close to his body and his hat’s familiar weight is more comforting than he thought was possible.

Then he puts out the torch, because light in small tunnels will only attract attention, and since none of the entrances have a draft he picks one that’s ascending and starts to walk.

Just a few turns in and it’s pitch black. While he’s not unused to darkness the roughness and illogical path of the caves, hewn by the uncaring hands of goblins, is unfamiliar. It does appear to be deserted, though, and Bofur cannot be more thankful for that as he forces his limbs to walk and keep walking. Time passes and he wanders through the tunnels, sometimes reaching dead ends, sometimes tight parts and partially caved in areas he must crawl through on hands and knees. When he crawls he can feel blood soak his clothes, dry and become tacky then crusty, sticking the fabric to his flesh again and again as his wounds close and reopen. His thoughts are blurred with pain and he is desperately thirsty.

More than once he stops and the only thing keeping him from lying down is the fear of the things behind him. He wants to sleep, to curl up and forget this ever happened.

He wonders if the others ever got out alive. He wonders what he will do if they didn’t.

In the dark, in pain, Bofur starts to cry. He wants Bombur here – shy, stupid, sweet Bombur. He wants Bifur. He doesn’t want them dead. He doesn’t want to be here, alone and bleeding, pathetic and weak for allowing those goblins to do what they did to him.

Time stretches out and he starts to think he will never escape. The walls narrow and he has to crawl, then wriggle along the hard floor. He is gasping with pain by the time the tunnel opens out, but when it does there is light.

Bofur staggers out of the cave. It is early morning – how long has he been in there? It feels like days. The mountainside is covered in sparse forest, mist and nothing else – no dwarves, no sign of dwarves, except perhaps in the distance where there is smoke. A small forest fire, dying out now.

Bofur stands, legs burning but unwilling to risk the sharp agony of sitting. The sun, weak as it is, hurts his eyes. He should go down to the fire and see if he can find any tracks or trails the others might have left, because he has to believe that they’re alive. He will not accept otherwise.

He is just so tired.

He has barely begun to walk when something catches his attention – a giant silhouette in the sky, and for a wild moment Bofur thinks of dragons. Then he looks again and sees an eagle, massive, and does not have the time to dodge away before it picks him up in just one talon. It is impossibly strong and he cannot fight; he supposes it is just his luck that he would escape the goblins to die like this. He feels like he could scream or cry again, but there is little point now. A great gust of wind from its wings buffets him as they lift into the sky; Bofur watches as his hat is knocked off and falls slowly, inevitably, to the ground far below. Then he closes his eyes tight shut and waits.


End file.
